


Mnemonics

by free2fallup



Series: In Another World [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Memory Loss, Modern-Ish Thedas, academic au, idk let's find out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:34:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24817675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/free2fallup/pseuds/free2fallup
Summary: Modern-ish Thedas AU. Elizabeth Nix is a grad student at the University of Orlais with a passion for elvhen literature and years missing from her memory. When she begins to have dreams of a life that couldn't have been hers, what secrets will she unlock from the depths of her own mind?
Series: In Another World [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795123
Kudos: 1





	Mnemonics

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, here we go! Apologies for the big exposition dump; should be smooth(er) sailing from here. :)

It was a warm day in early autumn, the sun shining through the trees in thick honeyed rays that pooled soft and inviting in the lush grass. A cool breeze, only just starting to take on a hint of the chill of the coming season, stirred the leaves of the ancient camphor tree that shaded the garden tucked between the History and Fine Arts buildings at the University of Orlais. Tucked in among the tree’s gnarled roots, natural and comfortable as if she’d been born there, Elizabeth peered at the thick book in her lap, frowning as she squinted at a note scribbled in the margins in tiny but precise handwriting. She reached for the satchel at her feet, balancing it atop the book as she rummaged through it. Snatches of lecture from a nearby open window floated out into the still air, and she paused in her search to listen.

_You are all, of course, well aware of the effects of the Coryphean War. Though most of you were only children when it ended almost a decade ago, that war changed fundamentally changed the shape of Thedas as we know it, and not a single human, elf, dwarf, or qunari was spared from that change._

Ah. Elizabeth smiled, pulling her glasses out of her bag and giving the lenses a quick wipe with the tiny cloth tucked inside their protective case. She knew this lecture by heart.

_We're all aware of the major players, of course: the Tevinter magister Corypheus, whose assassination of Divine Justinia began the war, and the Inquisition that rose up to oppose the subsequent invasion of the south. This term, we will be focusing on the Inquisition leadership and structure, and its successes—and failures—as a fledgling organization on a world stage. Much like the Inquisition itself, we will take something of a four-pronged approach; covering the diplomatic, military, and clandestine branches of Inquisition hierarchy with the Inquisitor as leader and figurehead._

Elizabeth returned to her marginalia, frowning slightly as the cramped script came into sharper focus. This was _the_ definitive collection of elvhen oral histories, generously loaned to her by Dr. Sabrae from the Elvhen Language department, but _someone_ seemed to have a…passionate issue with this particular passage from _The Tale of Iloren_.

**Iloren was a MAGE!!** read the note. **ONLY hunter-mage in Dalish lore, or are others lost??**

A fair—if aggressive—point, she mused: how often did Elvhen literature post-Arlathan feature hunters using magic, or mages who lauded as skillful hunters?

_Remember, of course, that very little is known—or has been declassified—regarding the Inquisition’s leadership. Some scholars suspect that the resulting anonymity is intentional, that the Inquisition wished to have its ideals tied to the organization as a whole, rather than to individuals. Your task as burgeoning young historians will be to separate fact from propaganda from legend, seeking the little nuggets of truth that lie therein._

Knowing the lecture was nearing its close, Elizabeth pulled out her research journal and quickly scribbled a note to ask Dr. Sabrae or her thesis advisor, Dr. Felassan, about Iloren. Cramming the journal and book back into her bag, she stood up and stretched, warming her stiff muscles in the sunlight.

_Remember, history is rarely—if ever—recorded with unerring accuracy, and it always favours the powerful. You must shake off your assumptions and walk through this profession both critically and empathetically. This is how we learn._

In the distance, the deep, sonorous ringing of bells announced the hour, and Elizabeth waited until the sounds of students gathering their things and shuffling out of the classroom had faded before she popped her head through the open window and grinned at the dark-haired woman who stood behind the lectern, arms crossed and a well-sculpted eyebrow raised expectantly at her.

“Very nice, Mama. Appropriately inspiring for the first day of the term.”

Dr. Jane Nix snorted and rolled her eyes.

“I hope they remember this when we’re in the middle of the semester poring through trade manifests and tracing the lineage of the Du Paraquettes pre-Inquisition.” She smiled fondly at her daughter. “History can be as tedious as it is exciting, and it helps to remember the ideals that keep our field alive and questioning.”

“Yep, I’ll just stick to ancient Elvhen literature. Nothing tedious there,” Elizabeth winked and braced her arms on the wooden windowsill, hauling herself into the classroom with a quick prayer to avoid splinters. She was a bit shorter than the average human woman, but the window was low and there was muscle under the softness of her stomach and thighs. “It’s not like _I_ have memories of the Coryphean War, anyway,” she grunted. “Only what I know from your research, and that’s plenty.” She dusted herself off and looked up, catching the strange, sad expression her mother often wore when she mentioned her memories—or lack thereof. Her eyes softened.

“Well, I’m happy digging up old pieces of lost Arlathan—metaphorically, of course—and you’re happy inflicting trade manifests upon poor, unsuspecting undergrads, so what’s there to complain about?” she laughed, threading her arm through her mother’s and tugging her towards the door. “C’mon, I’m hungry.”

“Who knew I’d spawn a blue-haired lit nerd?” Jane grinned wryly, allowing her daughter to pull her through the halls and out the heavy double front doors of the Dorcas Guerrin History Building. Elizabeth fluffed the hair in question, dyed bright turquoise and cut to just above her shoulders.

“You _love_ my hair and you _love_ my degree program,” she sniffed.

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

Their car was a battered old station wagon lovingly dubbed “Betsy”, and Elizabeth absent-mindedly traced patterns on the passenger-side armrest as Jane navigated out of the faculty parking lot. It was eight years since she’d woken up in hospital, battered and bruised, with no memory of the previous two years. She’d been in an accident, she’d been told, and suffered severe head trauma. She didn’t think about it too often anymore—the gap in her memories, which she’d privately labelled “The Breach”, almost felt like an old friend at this point. No point in dwelling.

And yet. They made their way through downtown Val Royeaux, past the Coryphean War Memorial, stopping at a traffic light next to Inquisitor’s Plaza. There was a statue of the Inquisitor herself there, cast in summer stone, upraised hand enchanted to glow green with power. Her face was fine-boned and regal, her limbs long and lithe, her expression somehow both stern and hopeful. Elizabeth often wondered if the woman had really looked like this, or if it was, as her mother often lamented was probably the case, a highly polished and idealized version. Catching sight of her own face reflected in the car window, she brushed her fingers over the network of fine scars that ran up the left side of her own face: a physical reminder of what she’d lost and—though she’d never admit it—the real reason she’d dyed her hair. A bright distraction from the scarring that, despite medical and magical intervention, was not quite invisible. She wondered sometimes if the Inquisitor was scarred like her. Or had been, before she died.

Their home was on the outskirts of Val Royeaux, tucked into a quiet neighbourhood and mostly hidden from the street by old growth trees and a wild but organized garden. A large red-and-white dog bounded into the front yard as they made their way through the front gate, spinning in circles with excited cries.

“Elanor, get down! _Get down_ , you silly creature!” cried Jane, shoving the dog away with one hand as she unlocked the front door with the other. Elizabeth knelt down and was nearly bowled over as the exuberant animal bathed her face in slobbery kisses. “Ooooh, who’s a good girl with a big, squishy face, huh? _It’s you!_ ” she cooed, burying her fingers in the thick fur at the nape of the dog’s neck and planting a kiss of her own right on the white stripe that bisected the golden-red on her face. Elanor wiggled out of her arms and raced into the house in front of Jane, Elizabeth following close behind.

The house was small and old, worn wood floors covered with thick, brightly-coloured rugs that Jane had woven by hand. More of Jane’s weaving covered the old stone walls, tapestries depicting Andraste and Shartan, the elvhen of ancient Arlathan, the dwarven Ancestors, even one of a vashoth standing face-to-face with a high dragon, equally matched in strength and rage. Elizabeth fingered this last one lovingly as she passed, moving through the living area crammed with bookshelves and overstuffed armchairs and activating well-maintained glyphs for light and heat as she passed. The sun was beginning to set, the air taking on a decided chill as autumn asserted its presence. Elizabeth’s magic, a small and humble thing, unfurled with warmth in her stomach, reaching to connect with the familiar hearth and home.

Dinner was simple and quick, Elizabeth eating leftover pizza in her favourite chair, with her feet on the coffee table and her laptop perched on her lap. She typed a one-handed email to Dr. Sabrae about _The Tale of Iloren_ with a slice of cold pepperoni-and-olive in the other hand, reminding herself to also bring it up with Dr. Felassan at their advisory meeting the next day. Her mother sat at a kitchen table laden with books and scattered papers and old tea mugs, organizing syllabi for her morning classes. Something about the moment struck her as so _real_ , so grounded and true, and she drank it all in—the stillness, the comfort and familiarity of home, the warmth of the soft colours and homespun textures that filled their shared space. It struck her as a significant moment, this scene of gentle academic domesticity, a lingering peace at the change of the seasons, but significant to _what_ she couldn’t quite place.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, here we go. A short chapter to begin, but we're just getting started. :)


End file.
